Weird Little Creations

Dolls - heck, what am I supposed to write about you?

I know you can inspire fierce and lasting devotion among humankind but I've never owned one, never played with one, never bought one for either of my daughters (they preferred furry toys) and frankly, you unnerve me with your inflexible expressions and your too big eyes...


There is a perfectly serviceable Greek-derived word for the fear of dolls: pediophobia. It's not a condition I suffer from personally, don't get me wrong - I just don't like the weird little creations -  but I use it as an imaginative point of departure for this dark new poem, a cautionary tale ...

The Doll-Maker's Son
He never shed a tear
when his mother passed away.
It wasn't done. No display of emotion
from the doll-maker's son.
He'd sit in the sweet-smelling sawdust
on his father's workshop floor
after school, all unawares,
and play with the parts
which the doll-maker discarded.
Poorly-turned heads
with blank stares and no hair
he would dextrously wire
onto imperfect torsos
sporting weird reject limbs,
flawed arms and splintered legs
that never merited a hand or foot.
He'd sew them clothes
but took care never to love
these mannequin grotesques
which always met the same fate,
to be fed as fuel into the workshop stove.

In later years when he'd become
an iron man of rank and power,
his bounden duty was to send
imperfect girls and boys
into that final caustic, cleansing shower.
He sometimes fought to stifle a sigh
as he pulled the lever down,
though he never shed a tear. It wasn't done.

However,
when the mournful creaking
of the cattle trucks
snaking into camp at night
managed to infiltrate his dreams,
became the noise his father's lathe would make,
then he might wake up screaming
and not know why.

Apologies for the somewhat gloomy subject matter. Blame it on the shadow of the time of year and the ongoing shambles of Brexit and Oxit (the latter being the ongoing campaign to prise the Oystons away from our football club). How will it all end? Answers next week - that's the upcoming blog theme, by the way.

Thanks for reading. Be kind, stay positive, S :-)

Read More

Suzy

Suzy

My first born was a little bundle of soft, pink joy.  She had a mass of curly blonde hair, a rather serious face and eyes that refused to close at bedtime despite my frequent efforts to lull her into that deep sleep I knew she needed.  She had two changes of clothes which was hardly adequate but I had plans to deal with that.  Grandma would come into play with her sewing and knitting skills. 

I was three and Suzy was my pride and joy.  

From the day that Suzy arrived in my Christmas stocking my life changed.  I was the mum I hadn’t realised I wanted to be. I had the baby I hadn’t realised I needed. 

Don’t get me wrong, Suzy wasn’t always the perfect child. She had her moments. The eyes were a prime example. Whilst my friends had babies whose eyelids drooped and quivered and finally closed as they were laid in their cots, Suzy stared at me, wide eyed and serious, some might say defiant.  She stayed like that as I covered her with the quilt my mum had made, stroked her Brillo pad hair and sung a little lullaby.  

When I had done my morning chores, which usually consisted of frying plastic sausages and making numerous cups of tea for my mum, I would return to the cot and find Suzy in the same catatonic state.  I’m not sure what happened with her finger but I’m guessing that one day the lack of sleep became too much for me and I bit into the squishy digit and spat out the tiny end.  Either that or the feeling of soft plastic between my teeth was impossible to resist - a bit like when you have a chewy sweet and try desperately not to bite into it.  

Suzy took the surprise amputation in her stride and continued to stare blankly at me as I sat miserably wondering how to explain away the missing finger to her grandma (who I guessed might not be too happy about it: ‘You bit her finger off?? What do you mean you bit her finger off??) I predicted a telling off unless I could dress Suzy in gloves for the rest of her life. 

I think I must have got away with the finger because sometime later Suzy suffered the loss of a couple of toes in a similar incident.  I told her it was frostbite, which my dad had recently explained to me, and she accepted it with her usual sangfroid. I did wonder much later, after one graphic RE lesson, whether I should have blamed leprosy. 

I think having Suzy must have sparked my interest in sewing and knitting, which remains with me to this day  As predicted, my mum made Suzy a few basic outfits - dresses, skirts, knickers and, strangely, an apron.  I’m guessing the apron was to prepare Suzy for a life of housewifery, and in the meantime to assist me with the cups of tea and plastic sausages.  Before long I was sitting with pieces of old fabric, scissors and a needle and thread, and cobbling together a rather bizarre wardrobe for Suzy.  Which, thinking about it, is probably how my love of weird clothing for myself developed.  

The best times with Suzy were undoubtedly when we visited our cousins in Margate.  Sue, a year older than I, had her own baby, Lindy, who was slightly smaller than Suzy.   I remember comparing the two babies and, just like a real mother, I felt quite smug that Suzy was obviously so much chubbier and prettier than poor Lindy.  Sue had a great Auntie Rosa, who was a whizz with a pair of knitting needles or a crochet hook, and was obviously at such a loose end that she had fashioned a huge wardrobe of outfits for the lucky Lindy.  I don’t know how I did it but I managed to persuade Sue that some of Suzy’s rather strange and ill-fitting outfits would be lovely on Lindy, and vice versa.  Soon Suzy was being squeezed into beautifully knitted jumpers and cardigans, and poor Lindy was looking like an orphan in huge hand me downs, falling apart at the seams.  I’m not sure what Suzy thought of the knitted knickers but she wore them without complaint for much longer than I’m sure was hygienic. 

As I got older, I have to admit I had less contact with Suzy. Life took over - art college, boyfriends, marriage and (more) children. Suzy ended up unceremoniously dumped head first, woolly knickers in the air, in a box in a cupboard at my parents’ house.  She might have been out of sight but my first born was never really out of mind for too long.  Grandchildren, great grandchildren, nieces and nephews were all treated to the sight of Suzy’s poker face, as the toy box was brought out over the years. I must say, Suzy was usually discarded in favour of something far more exciting.  It looked like she’d had her day. Nobody loved Suzy like I loved Suzy. 

Just recently, knowing I was going to write this post I asked my son to take a picture of Suzy whilst he was visiting his grandparents. In an attempt to get Dan to find the right doll, I described her in as much detail as possible: she’s ugly, quite dirty and yellow, with missing fingers and hair like a Brillo pad. He sent the picture. 

Suzy, My Baby, With Her Missing Fingers

You might be 63 now Suzy - your fingers and toes have healed, your hair is still too stiff to brush and those eyes will never close, but you know what, Suzy, you’ll always be my baby. 

Another Day with Mother by Jill Reidy

At night

In the nursery

The baby dolls stir

Peep over their quilts 

And call to each other

Suzy never sleeps

Her eyes all seeing

She’s the leader 

Keeps the secrets

They help each other

Out of cots

Play games they’ve never 

Had a chance to play

They giggle

Drink the juice left on the side

Hold hands, dance round

And wait 

For the early signs of dawn

As the light 

Seeps through the curtains

And the room begins to warm

Suzy picks up toys 

Pulls back covers

Does a roll call 

Prodding and poking 

Sends the babies

Back to bed

I find her in the morning

Suzy, my first born

Eyes wide

Hair wild

I lift her up

Inhale the familiar rubbery smell

Gently touch the broken fingers

She stares right back at me

And resigns herself to another day with mother

Thanks for reading,    Jill

Read More

Dolls - Meet Janice

My lovely big doll, Janice lives in the attic. Propped up between an old filing cabinet and boxes of Christmas stuff, she manages to stay upright and fix her blue-eyed gaze through the Velux to the tops of the houses opposite, or the night sky. She is nearly sixty years old, in reasonably good shape and dressed smartly in a pale blue summer dress that used to be my daughter’s. Janice’s original dress of shiny white and royal blue has not survived the test of time.

She was given to me on my fifth birthday and we’ve always been together except for the time a few years ago when I lent her out to take part in a themed window display somewhere in Knott End.

We almost had a tragedy on Sunday. I carefully brought her down to the landing for a photo-shoot during which, our eldest grandson, being inquisitive, came looking for me. Of course, I had to introduce them to each other, grandson not quite sure if Janice, nearly the same height, was real or not, kept a safe distance. Seconds later, we took her downstairs to meet the others. I kept hold of her while our granddaughter and younger grandson looked at her. A few remarks from the so called adults of the family, like,

‘Oh that creepy doll, what’s she doing down here?’ As if she’d escaped the attic on her own.

 ‘That Janice, she’s so bleeping scary!’ There’s absolutely nothing scary about my Janice.

‘You always kept her at the end of my bed. She gave me bleeping nightmares.’ Huh? My daughter didn’t complain at the time and I’d say she comes across as a well-adjusted young mother.

I was trying not to laugh too much as I defended my beautiful doll. I explained that the poor thing has to live right upstairs in the attic room because someone who shall remain anonymous is easily spooked by her. Everyone knows who it is, so there’s much family laughter and witty banter going on when suddenly, as I altered the way I was holding Janice, both her arms dropped off and fell to the floor. What was happy laughter became an uproar, squeals, tears, aching sides and literally rolling on the floor. It was the funniest thing ever, just hilarious. The stuff that linked the arms together looked like perished rubber and it probably was. Luckily, she was soon mended with some elastic from my sewing cupboard and the expertise from ‘he who will not be spooked by a doll while he’s mending it’ who did a first class job and I am very grateful.

If our new neighbours think they’ve moved next door to a madhouse, I hope they know it’s a happy one and they are welcome to join in. Janice is back in the attic, until next time.

I found this poem by William Butler Yeats

The Dolls

A doll in the doll-maker's house
Looks at the cradle and bawls:
'That is an insult to us.’
But the oldest of all the dolls,
Who had seen, being kept for show,
Generations of his sort,
Out-screams the whole shelf: 'Although
There's not a man can report
Evil of this place,
The man and the woman bring
Hither, to our disgrace,
A noisy and filthy thing.’
Hearing him groan and stretch
The doll-maker's wife is aware
Her husband has heard the wretch,
And crouched by the arm of his chair,
She murmurs into his ear,
Head upon shoulder leant:
'My dear, my dear, O dear,
It was an accident.

W.B.Yeats  1865 - 1939

Read More

Dolls

I was 33 when I acquired my first house. It was built in the 1950’s and in a 1930’s Art Deco style. It had three bedrooms, a bathroom, a drawing room, dining room and a small kitchen.

Ready furnished with period pieces, all it needed was redecorating and a little refurbishing. It went on to become a traditional family home, complete with dad, mum and three children.

It was three feet high and two feet wide and I was only allowed (at last) to play with a dolls house because we had just had a baby girl and we were getting it ready for her. 

I have always loved small and miniature things; books, dolls, furniture, everything small scale. Being a boy, I never had the opportunity to ‘play’ with such things. I didn’t even have a sister, whose dolls I could have played with. Also, I was brought up in a very rough part of Liverpool and it wasn’t something to mention out loud. 

But now, I had a daughter and she was going to like dolls and dolls houses. We were given this first one as it was a family piece (made by my wife’s grandfather for his daughter). I got it ready and bought another two, all complete with miniature interiors and dolls to inhabit them. 

As soon as my daughter could play, we would sit and play for hours with these houses. We would make up stories and imagine what the dolls were saying to each other, what they were doing in the kitchen and in the drawing room. 

We would buy extra furniture and even more dolls as friends and neighbours. 

It developed into a garden, with sunbathing dolls and plants and animals. We had a gardener, cook and butler. A house with staff!

 

My daughter developed a great imagination and her stories were so much more vivid than mine. She is now twenty- three and still loves all things miniature and her/my dolls houses live with us as she doesn’t yet have her own place. She reckons dolls hold in secrets and as I pass them on the landing each day, I smile because they know all mine. 
 

 

The art of  small things


As the doll turns the page,
don't offend the book, or its age
by saying it could be opened faster
if it were bigger, vaster

than the whole library he’s sitting with.
This is all part of the myth
that bigger is better – or another,
that life is ruled by Big Brother

watching you. Mass media’s laced
with this hype and it can be traced
back to ‘size matters’ – it’s implicit
you don’t have to listen for it.

 A strong magnifying- glass
will show the miniature’s class.
When you fix it in your view,
the truth that hides becomes visible to you.




Thanks for reading,
David Wilkinson

Read More